


a lone mirage to see

by Lire_Casander



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Ambushes and Sneak Attacks, M/M, Murder, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:28:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23606068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lire_Casander/pseuds/Lire_Casander
Summary: When Marshal Alex Manes is sent to retrieve Michael Guerin from Albuquerque, he expects an easy journey back to Roswell. He is surely mistaken.
Relationships: Max Evans/Liz Ortecho (mentioned), Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 9
Kudos: 47
Collections: Time After Time: A Roswell New Mexico Alternate Era AU Event, there will always be an us (in every world in every story)





	a lone mirage to see

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhitneyL32](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhitneyL32/gifts).



> Written for the [Time After Time Event](https://alterarnm.tumblr.com/) over a Tumblr, **Day 3: western**.
> 
> Prompt given by [whitneylj01](https://whitneylj01.tumblr.com/): **Michael as the outlaw & Alex as the marshal (Alex sets out to bring him to justice but then falls for him instead and I can just imagine Michael, like, having snarky one sided conversations with his horse)**
> 
> Title from _A Song To Sing_ by Hanson. Beta'ed by [manesalex](https://manesalex.tumblr.com/).

The sun is rising in the East when Alex gets out of the building, the star-shaped metal on his chest reflecting the newborn light. He looks around for his horse and sighs when he sees the brown and white animal happily drinking water from the gutter as though they aren’t going to have the most important and yet the most difficult day of their lives. 

“Hey, Poynter,” he says as he pats down the neck of his horse softly, so he doesn’t scare the animal. They’ve come a long way, Poynter and himself, and their bond is one that can’t be broken easily, but he doesn’t want to risk spooking the horse. “Ready for today? It’s going to be a great day, you’ll see.”

He walks around Poynter and sets about to mount him. He’s got a full morning before he has to go back to Roswell with his prized prisoner he’s picking up in Albuquerque following Sheriff Valenti’s orders. Apparently one of the marshals out there — Max Evans, according to the latest information — had managed to apprehend one of the most sought after criminals in the whole area, but he had been forced to give the criminal up to Roswell’s law force due to some of his crimes having been committed in Sheriff Valenti’s jurisdiction. Alex had been the one appointed with the task of getting Michael Guerin back to Roswell to face justice for his crimes.

Albuquerque is almost five days away on a horse, and he’s been on the road for four already, so he mounts Poynter and starts his trip to the big town before it’s too late to make it there before sunset. He really doesn’t want to spend the night in the desert when he could be safely sleeping in a bunk at the Albuquerque Sheriff’s precinct. He spurs Poynter and decides he has to enjoy the views he gets as he rides away in the desert, the dust swirling around them as he urges Poynter to go faster and faster with every word he gifts his horse. He doesn’t believe in hitting animals with force — he doesn’t believe in force and violence at all, even though he chose the life of a marshal — so he treats Poynter with enough care to make the horse like him and obey him without having to resort to anything that holds a resemblance to violence.

“Marshal Manes,” he’s greeted upon entering Albuquerque’s limits by a tall man who he thinks might be Max Evans. He’s dark and brooding, his white cowboy hat leaning to the side as he eyes Alex up and down with an indecipherable glint in his gaze. “You made it in record time.”

“I took off just as the sun was rising,” he explains, dismounting Poynter and dusting his shirt off. The star on his chest gleams again, just like it had done in the morning, only now under the last rays of sun the day has to offer them. “Marshal Evans, I imagine.”

“You imagine right,” the other man nods. “Your reputation, and your family’s, precedes you, Marshal Manes,” he continues, and Alex flinches. He doesn’t like to be reminded of his achievements while wearing his marshal badge — the way Evans spits his name makes Alex cringe. He joined the sheriff’s office to get rid of the legacy the Manes name entails, but it seems he doesn’t stand a chance wherever he goes.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Marshal Evans,” he replies with as much steel in his voice as he can muster. “I’m here to do my job, which is to bring criminals to justice. Everything else is not relevant.”

It seems Evans understands that Alex isn’t going to be friendly with him after that slip up — which, if Alex is being honest, isn’t entirely Evans’ fault; everyone feels entitled to remind him of his family legacy even if he doesn’t like it — for the marshal nods and says, “I understand you’ll be taking the criminal off to Roswell tomorrow morning instead of tonight, right?”

Alex just nods and follows the other marshal inside the building that screams Sheriff’s office to him. He’s not wrong — there are cells lined up by the far end of the room he sets foot into, and a few scattered tables that have seen better days dented against the other end, not one marshal in sight. There’s an open staircase at the right side of the room. “Follow me,” Marshal Evans instructs, taking the first steps of the staircase. “I’ll show you your quarters for the night.”

“I’d rather have a look at the criminal I’ll be taking to court tomorrow, if you don’t mind,” Alex contradicts him, turning to the cells.

“Thought you should be tired after riding the whole day,” Marshal Evans murmurs, turning around again and leading the way to the cells. “Please, let me show you.” He points to the furthest cell, the bars too close together to prevent anything or anyone from getting out. Alex follows him to it, only to find a figure slumped against the wall, slouched across an uncomfortable bench, a dark cowboy hat covering his face. “This is Michael Guerin,” Marshal Evans introduces, no further explanation. Alex waits a few seconds for something else to come out of Marshal Evans’ mouth — maybe some kind of indication as to why Guerin has been apprehended, because despite the legend surrounding the name, Alex has yet to find out what Guerin’s crimes are. However, he’s a trained soldier, never one to ask irrelevant questions but always ready to follow orders, so when Evans doesn’t offer anything else, Alex simply shrugs it off and nods.

“I’ll pick him up first thing in the morning. Have him ready by dawn,” he instructs, as though he runs the place instead of Sheriff DeLuca, the first woman to ever lead a sheriff’s office. _Wild West is becoming wilder_ , his father’s voice rings in his ears, and he shakes his head to get rid of it. The last thing he needs is for memories of his father to tarnish whatever good he’s set to do. “Now I’d like to see my quarters for the night, thank you.”

Marshal Evans leads the way up to a second floor, where Alex can see a few bunks as scattered around the room as the tables below are, and gestures towards the beds vaguely. “We don’t really have a specific place for marshals to stay,” he explains. “The inn is around the corner, if you’d like to stay there,” Evans continues. “We’re not used to having foreign marshals picking up our criminals for us.”

There Alex can hear the snide remark and the snark. He’s used to it — it’s not his first rodeo with other marshals’ jurisdiction. He’s usually the man Sheriff Valenti sends when they need to gather criminals around the county because he’s tough and he’s way more convincing than the other marshals she has working for her. “This will be fine,” he replies with a soothing smile. “I will go check on my horse, and then I will take one of these beds. Thank you very much for your generous offer, Marshal Evans.”

“If you don’t need my assistance any further,” Evans mutters. “I will be on my way back home. My wife’s waiting for me.”

“Far it be from me to keep you from your wife,” Alex says, pleasantries spilling from his mouth slowly. “I still expect the criminal to be ready for pick up at dawn,” he repeats.

“He will be,” Evans promises. And after that, the marshal rushes off down the stairs, leaving Alex alone beside the bunks. He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face, and climbs downstairs as well, searching for his horse to ensure the animal will spend the night comfortably.

He finds Poynter outside, tied up to the wooden stick built for that matter, neighing happily. Alex pats him again, raking through the saddlebags until he finds a treat suitable for Poynter and lifts it up right in front of his mouth. 

“Good boy,” Alex whispers, leaning in and resting his head against the neck of his horse. “Good boy, Poynter.”

Poynter bites and neighs, and finally he swallows the treat whole, licking Alex’s hand in the process. Alex allows himself a small laugh huffing out of him, and with one last pat he turns to face the building and walks inside. He’s halfway up the stairs when he hears that voice, low and grave, enticing him and catching his attention.

“You’re the one to bring me home, marshal?” 

Alex turns to the cell that’s on the furthest end, where he knows Michael Guerin is spending his night. “Go to sleep, Guerin. You will need all your energy tomorrow.”

“Oh, I have plenty of energy,” Guerin says, and Alex can _feel_ the leer in his voice. “Come closer and I’ll show you.”

Against his best judgment, Alex takes a few tentative steps towards the cell and finds himself standing in front of the bars, peeking inside and watching Guerin looking up at him from underneath the brim of his black hat. “Go to sleep, Guerin.”

“Aren’t you even a bit curious?” Guerin fires up, words digging deep in Alex’s soul. He’s never once asked a question about the criminals he brings in; he just follows orders. “About why they’re turning me in?”

“You’re a criminal,” Alex finds himself replying without hesitation. “That’s all I need to know. Get some sleep, Guerin,” he repeats for the third time. “I’ll bring you to Roswell tomorrow, first thing in the morning.”

He turns to leave, managing to make it up a few stairs again when that voice carries through the air, haunting him in ways he wouldn’t have thought possible. 

“Just so you know, marshal, Max Evans is my brother.”

* * *

The sun rises to find Alex wide awake in his bunk. He hasn’t been able to sleep in the whole time he’s been in Albuquerque. He’s been lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, aware of every little sound and creak around him — Poynter thrashing outside, the wood cracking underneath Guerin’s soles as he paces in his cell, the creaking noise of his own bed as he himself turns and tosses. He knows he will regret it when the day rolls as he has to ride on Poynter’s back without a good night’s sleep, but he can’t help it. 

Alex has never been one to defeat insomnia when it hits him fair and square.

He gets up and gets as ready as he can with the little he has to work with, and walks down the stairs with as much energy as he can muster. Marshal Evans is already there, white hat in place, the star on his chest almost hidden in between the layers of clothes he’s wearing. Alex nods his head in greeting, and walks toward the last cell where he knows Guerin has spent the night. Marshal Evans stops him with a hand lifted, and points outside the door. “I have already got him ready to go, Marshal Manes,” Evans says with gritted teeth, as though it pains him to speak. Alex doesn’t understand what’s going on, but he has a bad feeling about this whole ordeal. All he wants to do is get the hell out of Albuquerque and back into Roswell as soon as possible.

When he gets out, following Marshal Evans, he realizes that the standard for _as soon as possible_ has changed overnight.

There is a woman dressed in marshal clothes standing outside, making sure Guerin isn’t going anywhere. Alex hasn’t seen her before, but somehow her face looks familiar. She’s keeping Guerin’s hands tied up in front of him while he sits on a bench facing Poynter, head bent down and black hat still in place, as if he has slept with it on. Alex has the feeling that he might as well have.

“Marshal Alex Manes,” he introduces himself to the woman, wincing when he says his last name out loud. “I don’t think we’ve met before.”

“Marshal Jenna Cameron,” she speaks, voice even and professional. “We haven’t, sir. Pleased to meet you.”

“Same,” he says politely before inspecting the prisoner. “Is he ready for transport?”

“As ready as he can be,” Marshal Cameron explains. “I’m sorry we don’t have a carriage for you to bring him to Roswell, though, sir. He will have to ride a horse alongside you for the whole journey.”

“What do you mean, you don’t have a carriage?” Alex stops dead in his tracks as he is taking one step toward his horse. “I’m sure the order Sheriff Valenti issued said _explicitly_ that a carriage was to be provided for this transport.” He tries to keep his voice even, but it’s impossible for him to keep the ice out of his words.

“It did, sir,” Evans speaks up. 

If Alex didn’t know any better, he’d think Evans is having a field day with this conversation — and he remembers what Guerin said last night, _Max Evans is my brother_. He knows he’s missing something, a detail that might make this whole interaction understandable to an outsider, but he doesn’t have the time nor the energy to attempt being polite. He just waits for Evans to keep talking. When the marshal doesn’t continue, Alex arches an eyebrow in what he hopes is a threatening way, and then Evans speaks up again.

“Our only carriage broke down last night,” he explains with a shrug, not even quavering under Alex’s inquisitive gaze. “Two of its wheels are busted, and there won’t be a replacement for them for at least three or four more days. The issue stated that the prisoner should be brought back to Roswell as soon as possible, and given that it’s a five-day journey back, we decided to provide you with a horse so you could ride back to your town with Guerin.”

“You expect me to ride back to Roswell with _my_ prisoner tied up on a horse right next to me,” he says slowly, chewing on every word to make his point come across. When neither Evans nor Cameron flinch, he realizes he might not be having the impact he’s aiming for. “That won’t be possible, marshals. We will have to wait until the carriage is fixed. I will write to Sheriff Valenti to explain the situation. When does the post carriage take off to Roswell?”

“Later in the week,” Marshal Cameron replies, and Alex is starting to hate her even though he doesn’t really know her at all, despite the striking resemblance to someone he _thinks_ he’s seen before. “In about five or six days, I believe.”

Alex knows he’s being baited, but he’s running out of options. If he can’t warn Sheriff Valenti that he’s going to be late because of an unexpected turn of events, he risks facing a punishment that, in spite of being way less harsh than his own father’s, has the potential to set his records back. He is the best marshal around Roswell; he can’t lose the only thing he’s good at. Again, against his best judgment, he nods slowly.

“So it’s either I leave today with Guerin and risk him escaping because of _your_ poor attempt at restraining him, or I stay put and risk having _my_ job ripped from me because of _your_ inability to do yours properly,” he states, enunciating each word clearly as to ensure the others understand the implications underlying his speech. Evans and Cameron nod too, this time looking a bit embarrassed. “Good then. I’ll work with what I can, now. But I’ll make sure this slip up won’t get unnoticed,” he warns them.

Alex checks around to see which horse he’s going to be given, and almost panics when he notices the black animal that is almost twice Poynter’s size. There’s no way he’s allowing a prisoner to ride in a horse that’s bigger than his — it has nothing to do with pride and everything to do with the fact that Poynter is a good horse but won’t be able to chase after that mountain of muscle it seems Cameron and Evans are giving him. “That the horse?” he asks cautiously. Evans nods enthusiastically, and he cringes. “Don’t you have another one more suited for the job? This one looks like a stallion, not a marshal’s horse.”

“As I was telling you, last night we had a bit of a situation,” Evans explains, as though he’s already done so when Alex can distinctly remember no explanation given whatsoever. He isn’t a man to ask questions, but he’s so close to breaking his own rules and just _ask_. “My wife has graciously lent us her own horse in the hopes that he will be returned after resting with the next carriage dispatch from Roswell to Albuquerque. Name’s Choco. Do we have to look for another one, Marshal Manes?”

Alex would have banged his head on the nearest wall — or Evans’ head, for that matter — at the smugness in that voice. He doesn’t like being told what to do by people who wear the same uniform he does, and he definitely doesn’t like being told off by an officer similar in rank. He shakes his head. “I will make do. Just get the prisoner ready, I need to get out of here and back to Roswell for his trial as soon as possible, and at this rate it looks like it won’t be before tomorrow.”

Alex has the inkling that something else is going on with Evans and Guerin, if the way the marshal manhandles the criminal is any telling — one hand grabs Guerin’s arm and pulls almost wildly, while the other shoots to Guerin’s back to keep him from banging against the wooden bench. A violent kind of caring, he thinks, filing that information for later, when he has a second to breathe and he’s back again in the safety of his house in Roswell. He takes another rope from Poynter’s saddle and wraps it around Guerin’s tied hands as well, creating a knot he knows no man can get free of. “You’ll be tied up to my horse as well,” Alex explains. “I don’t have the patience for you to be whining and complaining the whole journey back, so keep your mouth shut and everything will go smoothly.”

He gathers Evans’ help in getting Guerin up on Choco’s back, and he ties Choco’s saddle to Poynter’s, so he can rein both horses. He just hopes Choco isn’t a wild animal the way he knows some stallions are — he doesn’t think he can handle a rebellious horse on top of a snarky prisoner, Guerin’s lopsided smile a reminder of their latest conversation. He jumps over to Poynter, who neighs his greeting and scratches the ground with his hoofs. “I know, Poynter, I know,” he whispers to his horse, patting his neck and grabbing both Poynter’s and Choco’s reins. “Let’s go, boy. Let’s go back home.”

Without a second glance back to where both Marshal Evans and Marshal Cameron are standing — surely scowling at his back as he spurs on the two horses he has to manage back to Roswell — Alex rides through the outskirts of Albuquerque and right into the dusty paths that connect both towns throughout a whole desert.

* * *

The sun is blazing down on them as they ride their horses through the desert. There are around two-hundred miles between Albuquerque and Roswell, and Alex had intended to cover them in as little time as possible, but seeing as he’s holding two horses’ reins in his hands and he has to move slowly to prevent Guerin from either falling off Choco or trying to rush off, Alex isn’t sure they will make it by the end of the _week_. Guerin sounds like he’s still drunk from the previous night’s antics, as if that could be possible after so many hours inside a cell, so Alex has to endure his pointless talking, which is now directed to the horses.

“You’re such a good black horse,” Guerin’s currently stage-whispering to Choco, leaning in as far as the ropes Alex has secured around his wrists allow him. “We’re going to be such good friends, you and me. Not this other human around there,” Guerin goes on, pointing at Alex with no interest in disguising his actions. “He’s clearly uptight.”

“Watch your mouth, Guerin,” Alex warns. “I won’t say it again. Shut up right now.”

Guerin gives him the stink eye but effectively remains silent for a full ten minutes before launching into another solo speech about dust swirling around them as their horses run across the paths. Alex doesn’t think he will be able to stand one more second of Guerin talking nonsense to the horses or throwing veiled insults at him at any given moment. 

“Enough,” he says when Guerin’s about to start singing _again_. “We’ll take a breather. Just for a second. And keep _silent_.”

“What are you going to do about it, marshal?” Guerin taunts him as Alex holds the horses next to the curb. “Are you planning on shutting me up?”

“Don’t make me,” Alex warns again, thinking of the items he has in his bag that could act up as a gag to keep Guerin from giving him a headache. He dismounts and helps Guerin to do so — albeit a bit harsher than intended.

“I bet you’d love to,” Guerin replies salaciously as Alex forces him to sit against a couple of rocks and ties the rope holding his hands to his own wrist again. Alex only wants to hit his head hard against the nearest rock. He can understand why Evans wanted to get rid of Guerin so quickly, but it still doesn’t explain the weird dichotomy of their interactions. “Didn’t peg you for kinky, marshal.”

Alex fishes in his bag and finds a piece of cloth that could be used as a gag, and shows it to Guerin. “I’m going to tie this around your mouth if you don’t shut up. I won’t allow this behavior for the rest of the trip. And it’s a long trip, Guerin. You want to spend it as comfortably as possible.”

“Then untie me,” Guerin demands, lifting his hands in the air. “If you want me to be comfortable, then give me full range of movement.”

“As if,” Alex huffs, a little surprised that an outlaw like Guerin — drunk and violent, for the looks of his records — can form coherent, long sentences with words that aren’t _punch_ , _blood_ or _money_. “I’m not risking my career because you want to be free.”

“You said to spend the journey comfortably,” Guerin points out. Alex has to concede to him that he’s persistent, almost stubborn.

“You know it didn’t mean for you to be untied. Just keep your mouth shut and I won’t have to use this,” he waggles the cloth in front of Guerin. That seems to appease the criminal, who sits tight against the rocks and waits for Alex to give some water to the horses. “We should get going if we want to make it to the next stop before sunset,” Alex says after a while, not having taken his eyes off Guerin for a single second. The outlaw has remained with his eyes shut, unmoving and silent, face upturned toward the sunlight. “C’mon, Guerin, move. Up on your horse.”

“Good boy, Choco,” Guerin says, voice rough and low, when he manages to mount the stallion with a little help from Alex given that, with his hands tied up, Guerin can’t actually keep his balance. He leans in, allowing Alex to redo the knots without complaining. It’s such an unexpected behavior that Alex has to look up to see if Guerin is fine — only to find himself a few inches away from Guerin’s face, curls brushing his forehead softly and honey-colored eyes boring holes into Alex’s.

He has to take a step backward, taken aback by the force he can feel coming off Guerin, the _truth_ he can see in those eyes, and his own sudden urge to thread his fingers through those curls.

 _Get a grip, Manes_ , he chides himself, trying to step back and failing. He feels as though he’s gravitating toward quicksand, trapped in the whirlwind and unable to pull through, only getting further and further downward within each attempt to resurface.

Alex shakes his head to clear it. He grabs Choco’s reins and hops on Poynter, starting off the journey once again, but his mind is racing. He’s always known he wasn’t like the rest of the men he’s met throughout his life. His own father knew, and that’s when his own personal hell started, when honorable sheriff Jesse Manes found out about his youngest son’s tendencies and decided to take matters into his own hands to try and cure Alex from his illness. Alex is aware that he has a problem — that he’s not _normal_ — but he can’t help it. He’s so engrossed in his own thoughts, lost in the memories of darkest days when he had to endure beating after beating and punishment after punishment, that he doesn’t realize they’ve walked right into a trap until it’s almost too late.

The paths they’re walking are usually safe, but these days not a single person can make the trip between Albuquerque and Roswell on their own without being accosted by bandits. That’s why Alex had been so adamant they went along with a convoy instead of a marshal transporting a prisoner on his own. But he hasn’t paid any attention to that, instead trying to make Guerin be as quiet as possible, so when he hears a distinct, “Stop,” he begins to rethink his life choices.

When Alex looks up from his horse’s mane, he’s faced with a group of five or six men wearing scarves that cover up most of their features. A couple of them are holding firearms, pointed at both Guerin and himself, while the rest look like they’re guarding the path in case someone else shows up. Alex knows he can’t take all of them down — they’re too many for him if he has to keep Guerin safe as well — and he also knows that they’re lost the moment these criminals realize he’s a marshal. For now, his badge is hidden underneath his jacket, but he’s aware that in a fighting situation that is prone to change. Outlaws watching the tracks for guileless travelers to rob aren’t ones to allow a marshal get out of their paws alive. “Shit,” he mutters under his breath. He holds Poynter’s reins and brings Choco to a stop as well, both horses whining at the sudden interruption of their pace.

One of the masked men gestures for him to hop off Poynter, and Alex does promptly. He doesn’t want to give his identity away, not yet at least, although he thinks it might all blow up the moment the criminals take a look at Guerin’s state and add two and two in their minds. Alex moves slowly, purposefully focusing their attention on himself instead of on Guerin, but his plan blows up when the same masked man yells, “You! Get off your horse too!” 

Alex knows in that moment that they’re doomed.

There’s nowhere to hide — he isn’t even sure where these outlaws have showed up from — and surely there’s no way for him to win in a fight while having Guerin still tied up. The criminals are about to find out any second now that Guerin’s a prisoner instead of just another passerby, so Alex has really no time at all to come up with a plan that might be successful. He can see the moment the outlaws notice the ropes, the second when Guerin stumbles while trying to keep his cool as he dismounts Choco, and the way the mask slides off one of the outlaws jaw showing off his greedy face.

Alex recognizes that face. It’s almost as famous as Guerin’s, in each and every _wanted dead or alive_ notice.

“Wyatt Long,” he whispers before he can catch himself, effectively drawing all the attention onto himself, just like he’d wanted from the beginning. Only he hadn’t expected a whole horde of outlaws led by bloodthirsty Wyatt Long to zero in on him when he’s got no reinforcements and his only help is a tied-up prisoner.

“You know my name,” Long says derisively, walking slowly toward him. His right hand is on top of the gun Alex knows is resting against his hip. “Then you’re either a marshal or a criminal blinded my outstanding reputation. Which one are you, pretty boy?” The leer in his voice is evident — Alex knows that criminals abide to no law, not even God’s laws, and he’s been forced to believe he was even worse than those men and women living in the outskirts of legality. 

Alex doesn’t have the chance to reply. The metallic badge on his chest gleams underneath the sun that’s plummeting onto them, catching Long’s eye. Alex sees as Long’s snarl fades and is replaced by a thin line of pursed lips and furrowed brows. “You’re a marshal,” he spits out, gritting his teeth. “And I assume he’s either your prisoner or your companion,” he keeps on, sauntering next to Guerin and having a good look at him now that they’re closer. Long shakes his head. “Definitely a prisoner. What’s your name, brother? What has a good ol’ white boy like you done to earn such treatment?”

For the first time in a long time, Alex feels fear — not for himself, because he knows he has a _slight_ chance of getting out of this alive — but for Guerin, who’s currently tied up with no way to defend himself. If Long and his minions decide that Guerin’s a good addition to their ranks, Alex will most probably lose his job if he manages to get out of this situation alive. If Guerin’s deemed like competition or a threat, the last thing in Alex’s mind is losing his damn job — they both would be in dire danger of dying.

“Untie me,” Guerin whispers. Alex turns his head violently to his side; he’s heard Guerin’s voice close to him, but right now they’re separated by a few feet and a whole barrier of human bodies because all of Long’s henchmen have surrounded Choco. There’s no way Guerin’s voice can carry out without Long listening to it, but Long is still watching on without showing any signs that he’s heard a thing. “Untie me,” comes Guerin’s voice again, closer, louder, and Alex realizes it’s all in his head.

 _What the—_ he thinks. He blinks at Guerin, not understanding anything, and then he notices an eerie silence in the air — there’s no rush of words coming out of Long’s mouth, no movement of his minions, not even a gust of wind. Everything’s quiet and stopped, as though an Indian shaman has put a spell on them all. But Alex can move, he realizes. He checks he can walk and moves toward the horses, where Guerin is still on top of Choco. “What the actual hell, Guerin?” he demands.

“Untie me,” Guerin insists. Alex can’t really get past the human wall Long and his stooges have formed, not without touching them, and he’s deeply scared that any sudden movement might break the spell.

“What have you done?”

“Marshal,” Guerin says in an annoyed voice. “We have a chance of getting out of here alive. I will go willingly with you to Roswell after this, but if you want to even _get_ to Roswell in one breathing piece, you have to untie me.”

“I can’t,” Alex replies, both because he knows he shouldn’t, and because he knows he can’t reach Guerin. He’s mesmerized by the way one rebel curl bounces off Guerin’s forehead; he catches himself wishing he could just touch it. 

“Marshal,” Guerin says, waking him up from his reverie. “Alex, please. Let me help.”

“I can’t,” Alex repeats, surprised by the softness with which Guerin has spoken his name. “And even if I could, I don’t know if I—”

“Do you trust me?”

Alex freezes. It’s a direct question, straight to the core of the problem they have at hand. Guerin’s promised he’d allowed Alex to bring him to justice — as if he’s even got a say in that, now that Alex has him secured and ready for trial — and now it seems like he’s promising to help Alex get them out of this situation. All along, Alex has the feeling that the world has stopped spinning, quite literally, and they are the only ones able to move while Long and the other criminals are glued to the sandy soil. He has to make a decision. He has to choose wisely.

Alex closes his eyes briefly, trying to find his focus, and when he opens them once again all he does is nod his head.

In a sudden, fast movement, Guerin breaks free of his ropes as though they were made of butter, making it obvious that he could have untied himself much sooner. He dismounts Choco and stops briefly to wink at Alex, who finds himself staring back at him agape. And then, without further notice, Guerin extends one hand in front of himself, still circled by Long’s group, and everything becomes white.

The last thing Alex sees is a flicker of light surrounding him. The last thing he hears is Guerin’s voice, once again sounding as though he was in his head, saying “Stay with me, Alex, hold onto me.”

Everything fades to black.

* * *

Alex comes back to consciousness slowly. There’s a dull ache in the back of his head, and he groans as he rolls onto his side, almost falling off the mattress. When the thought sinks into his mind — he’s lying on a mattress, which means he’s on top of a bed, and, the last time he checked, he was surrounded by masked men with Guerin practically begging him to get the knots undone.

 _Guerin_.

He sits up too fast, his head spinning by the time he plants his palms against the covers and pushes up, everything fuzzy and moving slightly in circles around him until he manages to focus once again. Alex has to take a second to breathe; he lifts one hand up to his chest only to find that his badge is gone, along with his shirt. He’s not wearing anything from his waist up, and when he looks around he doesn’t recognize his surroundings.

“I see you’re awake now,” he hears coming from somewhere in the room, the nude adobe walls staring back at him in mockery. Alex doesn’t know where he is, doesn’t know who is around. All he knows is that voice, soothing him from the inside.

“Guerin,” he calls out, because that’s the only name that comes to mind. But when he looks around, there’s no one sharing that room with him — only the bed he’s lying on top of, a small table by the metallic structure, and a window showing him the desert where he was not so long ago. With a startled surprise, he realizes he doesn’t know how much time has passed since he confronted Wyatt Long. “Guerin?” he repeats, this time as a question. He hates sounding unsure and weak, but right now he’s aware of his slimming chances to understand the situation on his own.

“I’ll be there in no time,” comes the voice again, and this time Alex is ready to admit that its source is within himself instead of outside. “Just wait for me. Lie down and rest, I’ll be there with you when you wake up.”

All of a sudden he feels so exhausted that all he wants to do is close his eyes and sleep, when a few seconds ago he felt so alive. He leans back into the mattress and sinks back into a dreamless sleep.

The next time he wakes up, he isn’t alone in the room. Lounging on a chair, crouched forward with his own eyes closed and the mess of curls on top of his head bouncing in time with his snoring, Michael Guerin is tearing down any resemblance of him setting guard on Alex by sleeping his own stress off. Upon closer inspection, once Alex sits up slowly this time waiting for a dizziness that doesn’t come, Alex realizes there are burns in Guerin's wrists where the ropes had dug into his skin. Out of curiosity, he reaches out and touches the marks slightly. There’s a rush of warmth coursing through his veins the moment his fingers brush Guerin’s skin, a familiarity he hasn’t felt in a long time, the knowledge that he’s _home_ even though he hasn’t had anywhere to go back to for the longest time. Alex revels in the myriad of emotions wrapping his soul in a tight embrace, taking his hand from Guerin’s wrist before his caress wakes him up, but it’s too late.

Guerin groans and opens his eyes.

“You’re awake,” he flails for a second before focusing his gaze on Alex. “How are you feeling?”

“Where are we?” he demands, not missing a beat. His mind’s racing with all the things he needs to do — find Poynter, find Choco, re-tie Guerin and get back on the road as soon as possible. “I need to—”

“—take me to Roswell, yeah, I know, marshal,” Guerin finishes his sentence for him. “I promised to go with you, willingly, but first lemme explain.”

“I don’t need an explanation. I just need _out_.” 

Alex tries to step out of the bed, but he stumbles and almost falls to the floor. He feels weak and unsteady, and that’s something he hasn’t experienced in a long time — ever since he got out of his father’s paws. Guerin shoots up right beside him, hands outstretched to hold Alex in place. Alex doesn’t hit the floor, supported by the strength of a whole body keeping him straight, but when he looks around to mutter his thanks he realizes Guerin has never moved from his spot on the chair — he’s only leaning in, arms in front of him, fingers barely brushing Alex’s back.

Guerin isn’t touching him. And yet, Alex hasn’t fallen down, and he feels weightless. 

Guerin is _not_ touching him.

“How are you doing that?” he demands once he sits back on the bed, facing Guerin once again. Suddenly he doesn’t have that itch to leave wherever they’re trapped in; he just wants to understand what he’s gotten himself into.

“Do what?” Guerin replies innocently, sitting on top of his hands to hide them, not before Alex notices the gross bruised skin and the swollen scars on the back of the left hand. How he missed them before, when he’s been tying Guerin up and helping him get up and down Choco, Alex doesn’t know.

“You know what,” Alex insists. “Just now, you’ve held me without actually touching me. And back with Long and his crew, you _stalled_ time and then you managed to convey some sort of white, blinding light and—”

“I guess it’s safe to say I’m not from around here,” Guerin says, snark present in his voice.

“No joke, Guerin.” Alex stares at him without blinking. “Have you been able to get rid of the knots the entire time?”

Guerin has the decency to look ashamed. “Yeah?”

“Then why did you allow Marshal Evans to hand you over to me? Why didn’t you free yourself and go on the run?”

“Because I don’t want to live in the shadows anymore,” Guerin explains finally, exclaiming his words while standing up and facing the window, his side to Alex as he shakes his head. “Max is a good man, I swear he is, but he’s too stubborn to see an inch from himself. He was just doing the right thing.”

“He turned his own brother in,” Alex keeps on. It’s something he can wrap his own head around — he’s grown up in the Manes household, along with three older brothers and a father who was ashamed of who his youngest son had turned out to be — but he doesn’t understand why Guerin hasn’t decided to leave everything behind and just _run_. 

“I wasn’t about to go off, leaving everything behind. I had no option,” Guerin tries to explain. “We have another sister, and she needed help. So I stayed. That’s it, that’s my story.”

“Your warrant didn’t state why you’d been arrested,” Alex says, pushing through his own fear to overstep, because this is his prisoner but Guerin doesn’t feel like a criminal anymore. Alex wishes he could shake the idea that there’s been a terrible mistake here. He can’t help the memories surfacing now that he’s seeing himself reflected in those whiskey-colored eyes — the way Guerin talked caringly to Choco, the inflection in his voice when he told Alex to just trust him.

Michael Guerin might be several things, Alex realizes once he’s begun to feel the pull into Guerin’s gravity, but he’s not a criminal.

“I’ve been fighting around Roswell and Albuquerque for a long time,” Guerin says matter-of-factly. “Broke a few bones and crushed a few egos while doing so, and I might have attacked one very important, very rich landlord across borders.”

“Why would you do that?” 

“Noah Bracken is just a piece of shit,” Guerin says. “He deserved what happened to him.”

Alex nods slowly. He remembers the case of Noah Bracken, a couple of years before — a rich landlord, single, living between Albuquerque and Roswell, who had been found dead in his own land surrounded by part of his wealth and a note that read _no money in this world amends for what you’ve done_. The investigation had stalled for the longest time until an anonymous tip had led Sheriff Valenti to some information and Alex to collect Guerin from Albuquerque. 

“That was a particular crime,” Alex agrees. “We thought the murderer had to have attended school, since we found a note.”

“No money in this world amends for what you’ve done,” Guerin recites. “I know, I wrote it.”

“Are you confessing a murder? To a marshal?”

“You’re already bringing me to justice,” Guerin shrugs. “Might as well confess and save us some time. You can take me straight to the gallows.”

Alex shakes his head. “Guerin, I—”

“Let me show you,” Guerin interrupts him. “I can do that. Just—allow me.”

Before Alex can finish nodding, Guerin has his hand on top of Alex’s chest, and there’s a bright light and warmth spreading from those fingers throughout Alex’s skin, and suddenly he’s somewhere he doesn’t recognize. There’s sand but there’s also a murmur of water somewhere. When he looks around, he realizes he’s in Roswell, but it’s a Roswell that looks like it was taken out of someone’s dream.

Maybe because it actually is.

Guerin is standing there with him, gripping the edges of that seamless reality. When he speaks, his voice reverberates as though it’s echoing in a cave. “Remember I told you I had a sister?” An image of a blonde woman rushes to the front of the void surrounding them. Alex can see some sort of resemblance, but just as he’s about to point it out, the vision blurs and the woman starts screaming as a man — Noah Bracken, Alex realizes with horror — begins to beat her until she’s left bleeding on the floor. It repeats, and repeats, until all Alex can see is the blood staining the floor of this virtual space they’re sharing now. 

Her cries ring in his ears until all he can hear is a sound tearing apart his soul.

The vision shifts, and the woman is standing in front of Noah, a firearm in place — it looks like a regulation weapon, one similar to what marshals hold during their jobs — and as she discharges it once, twice, three times into Bracken’s chest, there’s a chorus of voices calling her name — _Isobel, what have you done?_ , _we have to help her_ , _how on Earth we do that, Max?_ — and all Alex can do is watch as Bracken falls to the ground with a loud _thud_.

Noah Bracken wasn’t killed by Michael Guerin, not according to this vision. Alex knows this is true, this is what really happened the night Noah Bracken died. 

And he knows Guerin stepped up to protect his sister until he was caught by the marshals. Somehow, deep inside his soul, Alex _knows_ Guerin felt like he had no other option but to surrender himself to save his sister.

Guerin senses his doubts, his thoughts, and nods slightly.

Alex doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to be witness to some surrender, to some confession. He’s already trying to find a way out of this dream he’s all of a sudden living in, when Guerin simply says, “I don’t know why I’m willing to tell this to you. You’re the marshal supposed to bring me to justice.”

“Maybe because you trust me the same I trust you,” Alex marvels in a low voice. “Without knowing why, you just—do.”

Guerin saunters next to him, the space they’re sharing shifting strangely, but Alex doesn’t feel threatened. It’s been a while since he last felt the thrill of feeling rushing through his veins, pushing to be unleashed. Tentatively, Guerin comes closer and lands a hand softly on Alex’s forearm.

“I know I can trust you, marshal.”

“Alex,” he corrects, blushing slightly.

“Then you call me Michael,” Guerin whispers, linking fingers in a joint caress that feels like all the stars in the sky are illuminating them.

Like some star crossed fate.

Like something cosmic.

In the abandoned adobe building they’re stranded in, with so much they have to say to each other, Alex holds tighter to Michael’s hand, and allows the emotion to sweep through him until all he knows is the feeling of _belonging_ , no question asked, no explanations needed.


End file.
